


but we make it (patch)work

by not2sure



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Denial of Feelings, Emotional Hurt, George-centric, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Not Beta Read, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Slow Burn, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Working Summary, does dream love him?? does he not?? who knows
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 04:34:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29645829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/not2sure/pseuds/not2sure
Summary: George likes to think he hides it pretty well.He loves him. So much it's hysterical—it's all so cliché and so ridiculously depressing, how much he wants him to know that he loves him, that he dreams of him at night and how, in almost every instance of them being together, he wants to hold his hand, wants to bury his head in the crook of his neck, wants to kiss him. Yet despite everything, he still tells himself he shouldn't say anything, that he can't say anything.So he fixes it. Patches it up with thin red thread and soft felt and every piece he can find. He covers it up. So tight, that it feels like his heart is about to burst at the seams, yet somehow, through some supernatural, miraculous feat, it stays hidden.—Or: George loves him, but he knows that they're never meant to be.
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 47
Kudos: 130





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm working on a more plot-heavy fic alongside this, so this is just for me to write without over-thinking too much. anyway sad high school au pog?
> 
> title inspo: patchwork staccato by toa.

It's another late afternoon in the computer room when George thinks: _Holy fuck I love you._

To call it a revelation would be an understatement. Someone lit a match and tossed it into stacks of dynamite, the sizzle of it's fuse burning, a warning call for what's to come, and when _what's to come_ eventually—inevitably—came, all hell had broken lose. A dam of suppressed emotions, unrecognized thoughts, of bottled up tension and years and years of feelings had culminated into that singular moment. That singular thought.

That singular phrase.

_I love you._

He entertains the idea for a while, lets it linger in the forefront of his mind and toys with it—being in love. More importantly, being in love with Dream.

And for a while, it's, for the lack of a better word—nice.

The idea of it is nice. He's on cloud nine when he imagines spending days with Dream, ideas of holding him close—their legs tangled under blankets during late nights at his house, watching YouTube on his flat screen in complete and utter silence, basking in each other's presence—fill his mind. Thoughts of holding his hand, sharing that small inch of warmth between them makes him gulp, thoughts of being able to hug him, to run into him and to run his hands through his hair and down his wide shoulders plagues him.

Thoughts of kissing (George nearly explodes at the thought) Dream, of pushing his mouth against his (and now, George really, really wishes Dream wasn't so close to him, because he has to physically stop himself from staring at his lips,) of feeling warm skin and softness against his own. He revels in the thought for a while, how good it would feel—how sparks would fly and how heaven above would sing hallelujah, how every piece in his life would feel _so right_ when it happens. How he would melt—despite how cliché it sounds, and _god, he really is a goner_ —how he would literally _melt_ in his arms, how he would shake and wonder _where the hell do I put my hands?_ How Dream, being confident to the point of arrogance and so full of pride, would grab his wrists and link his hands behind his neck effortlessly, and how he would pull them closer, so close that their chests would be firmly together, how Dream would wrap his own hands around his waist, resting just above his hip bones. How _nice_ it'd be.

"...It'd be."

George chokes on thin air, because _what the hell?_

Dream looks at him, concern furrowing his brow, "You okay?"

He's still hacking out his lungs, leaning over with a hand on his knee.

"I'm fine," George manages to sputter out. _What the hell,_ he thinks, _oh fuck, please tell I didn't say that out loud._

He kind of wants a black hole to appear right now and swallow him whole.

"Whuddya say again?" George asks weakly, even if doesn't want to know the answer, and Dream continues to look at him oddly with his arms crossed.

Uneasily, Dream answers, "It'd be great if we finish this by Saturday...?"

George wants to slap himself. He can feel the blood from his face slowly dissipate as he relaxes, the loud thudding of his heart in his ears fading away.

"Yeah, it would be..." George sighs, "Great."

Dream looks at him oddly for a second again, before continuing to type on George's keyboard.

By the way his mouth is moving it looks like he's saying something very important that George should really pay attention to, but his brain is malfunctioning right now and he _really_ can't seem to get the thought out of his head.

_I love you._

"Length shows the overall size of the array—value amount, not indices—like the size method for array lists. So if you want to reiterate the array without the comma, you need to make sure your if-statement asks if your start value is greater than length minus one," Dream states as he runs his mouse to highlight the block.

George clears his throat, "Ahh, alright."

Dream leans back on his chair, "Length minus one because indices start at zero," he clarifies, "It's the little things you need to pay attention to."

Distracted, George is still stuck at his brain conjuring up the _'I love you'_ that he responds with an intelligible: 'Haaaghhh."

His expression turns from a sheen of confusion to full on bewilderment, brow all scrunched up and his mouth does the thing where it flattens out into a thin line, which immediately makes right-brain George think: _cute,_ a statement that left-brain George nearly chokes at, because really, _where the fuck did that come from?_

Dream flicks his head up, gesturing towards the computer, "Run it?"

George takes a second to notice that, _oh_ , he's talking to him. George coughs and presses control twice as the console window below reruns the array.

_4, 0, 4_

—exactly how Dream said it would be.

"Told you so," He says while raising a hand to pat George on the back. He nearly jolts forward, like Dream's hand had burnt him to the bone.

Dream slides back into his desk with the push of his chair and goes back to click-clacking on his keyboard and glues his eyes on his monitor, completely and utterly unaware of everything—and anyone—around him. Completely unaware that George was still dumbfounded. Completely unaware that George was internally panicking.

George blinks. Once. Twice. Three times. Four. He isn't sure how long he's been sitting there, eyes completely glazed over and his mouth firmly shut, but his brain can't seem to move past _I love you_ and _what the fuck_ , repeating two phrases back and forth in some sort of never ending for-if loop.

He's featherlight. He's floating above the ocean and soaring in the clouds. Elated. So fucking elated.

But, like many things in his life, it comes crashing down in an instant.

_What if he knows? What if he pushes him away?_

He's falling, and he's falling fast. He's going through the clouds and dives headfirst down to earth helplessly, freefalling at god-knows-how-many miles an hour. That sliver of light—of euphoria—gets overtaken by fear, dark and heavy, looming over his revelation like a dark and heavy rain cloud.

Then, he gets his next revelation.

_He can never know._

The thought of it burns him, replacing his dreamy expression with that of a solemn, almost infuriated one. Why does everything have to be so fucking depressing for him? Why can't he just be happy? Why can't he just say he loves Dream? Why couldn't things be easy? _Why, why, why?_ He asks himself, but he already knows why.

 _It's not worth it,_ his mind supplies, _it's not worth risking it all for this._

George wants to fight back, he wants to say, without a doubt, that it'd be worth it. The three words are on the tip of his tongue, ready to roll off and to be exposed to the world. Yet there's a part of himself—small, yet still prominent—that's telling him not to. A part of himself that's telling him it's not a good idea, that it's only going to end badly if he does, and no matter how much he wants to retaliate, it repeats.

_He can never know._

He hears a familiar cough, followed by a "George?"

The man in question blinks, snapping out of it for a second. "Yeah?" He asks, distracted, still in a state of internal conflict.

"You good?" he asks, "You've been sitting there for a while."

 _I love you,_ he wants to say. Instead, he settles with an empty, "I'm alright," and he turns himself back to his computer, hands instinctively going on the keyboard as he looks up and debugs in silence, the phrases in his head repeating over and over again.

 _He can never know_ repeats, but he brushes it offhandedly.

 _I'll find a way,_ he hopes, _I'll find a way._

—

The seasons change, yet the revelation is fresh in his mind, floating above the surface like sea foam atop the deep ocean. Beyond everything, _above everything,_ it's there.

Warm spring afternoons in the computer room—sweat on his shirt collar, the whirr of a nearby fan and a sputtering air conditioner reams its head through the long hours, the drawl of Dream's voice, the sound of typing, clicking, sighing—turns into solemn autumn all-nighters with him—silent working, frustration-filled click-clacking on their laptops, groans of anger (sometimes regret), tired, aching, bloodshot eyes on the verge of falling asleep—and yet.

He sighs. _And yet._

It's there.

It's there during their hackathon days, humid springs where he looks over his shoulder and at Dream, who's sleeping with his face tucked into his arms in front of his monitor. Dream, who's wearing the same green sweater he had been wearing for the last week, whose hair is tousled and turned over (George bites back the urge to run _his hands_ in Dream's hair whenever he runs his through his own in frustration). Dream, whose eyes are tightly knit shut, soft-looking lashes curving upwards, (George wants to touch _so badly,_ but he knows he can't), whose breathing is soft, feather-like tranquility looming over him, covering him in some sort of ethereal like state.

It's there on their first day of junior year, when Dream looks at George, and George looks at Dream, they burst into tears, running towards each other crying, holding each other in a tight hug as slews of long apologies and 'I'm sorrys' and 'please forgive mes' empty out. When George is sure everyone's looking at them weirdly as they lean against the lockers with tear-stricken faces, trembling hands and rosy cheeks. When they end up in the Deputy's Office and when they end up in afternoon detention, scraping decade-old gum off the bottom of desks and chairs, stupidly smiling at each other as Mr Holden looks at them with a mix of disappointment and confusion on his brows.

It's there when they're hiking by a nearby creek during mid-autumn, when they're going the river and using rocks as platforms to cross. When George slips on a particularly mossy one and consequently sprains his ankle, and when Dream, without a second's hesitation, squats forwards—immediately soaking his shoes in the cold running river—and grabs George by the legs, hoisting him up on his back and treks forwards. When George can't help but lean towards the hairs at the back of his neck, can't help but feel comfort when he smells peppermint and cucumber under his nose. When his hairs tense at the feeling of warmth radiating from Dream and Dream's pulse against his arms in a steady staccato rhythm.

It's there many more times afterwards.

During late night calls at Christmastime, when George is visiting family in England as Dream visits his own in Florida.

During when, Dream, who at the time was impulsive and destructive mess, gets kicked out for a week and ends up crashing at George's house, when they end up passed out on the couch playing video games and running on energy drinks.

During the night of junior prom, which they—he, Dream, and Sapnap—decisively skip because they thought it was 'too boring' and end up geocaching at eleven PM, when they end up in a darkened alleyway and a stoner comes up to them and asks for money—they nearly piss their pants and run away laughing in both terror and hilarity.

It's there in almost every interaction forward. In every touch, every linger, every word. No matter the situation—no matter how ridiculous, how devoid of romance it was—it's there.

_I love you._

.

.

.

"George!"

George blinks, snapping out of his trance and looks up, and _oh._

_Oh._

He looks amazing.

George hopes he's not staring as Dream runs up to him. He hopes no one can see the way George looks at him a little differently, how he's so close to breaking, to snipping the thread and letting it all break lose, how close he is to letting the patches of felt and denim and canvas and cotton fly away, for the truth to be so blatant, so obviously there that Dream couldn't ignore it. He couldn't.

 _Not now._ He thinks, and George swallows down the thoughts as Dream nears and slides down to the seat next to him.

George hopes no one notices how he sits just a bit closer to Dream on the lunch table, just enough so that their elbows touch, that Dream is always within his peripheral vision—in the background—the sound of his baritone voice comforting against everyone else's, slipping him into a lull amongst the shitty Boston weather and the people and the noise around them.

 _Too close. Too close._ His brain supplies, yet another part of him is going _not close enough. Get closer._ And George nearly straight up facepalms at the thoughts.

"Man, Mrs Page lost her shit today," Dream starts.

Snapping out of his trance, George asks, "Is it your fault again?" and Dream shakes his head.

"No no no, it was fucking Kyle dude," he laughs for a second, "He drew a dick on the board with Sharpie and she went batshit crazy," Dream chuckles, "you should've seen it."

He squints, "Isn't she like _eighty?_ Cut her some slack."

Dream does his—stupid, not cute or endearing at all, nope—hand wave thing, "Eh, she's like forty. Also she marked my paper down for _not providing a title,_ " he says, exasperated, "I _wrote_ a goddamn title—in all caps! She kinda deserves it, to be fair."

"Bad title?" George suggests weakly.

"At least I provided one," he insists, rubbing his chin, "You should've been there, man it was funny," he laughs.

George rolls his eyes.

"Sorry I can't be part of AP English Lit, _Dream,_ " he huffs, "but by the way you describe it, I honestly don't think I _want_ to be a part of it."

Dream shrugs, "It's alright. Maybe a bit more feral than AP Comp Sci but still a pretty fun one."

To that, George smiles sarcastically, "I don't think learning about Hamlet _and_ Henry IV in one semester counts as fun."

"Well—yeah, I'm not talking about the learning part. Shakespeare can go fuck off for all I care," Dream makes a flicking motion with his fingers, "The class—I mean. It's funny."

" _Feral,_ " George corrects with a mouthful of spaghetti, "Feral isn't always funny."

Dream jabs George's side with his elbow, "I thought we were the feral boys?"

George retaliates by poking Dream's hoodie-clad arm with a stern finger, ignoring the way the little bit of contact made him feel, or how soft his hoodie looked, or how much he's always wanted to—nope. He's not gonna think about that now. _Don't think about it now._

"We _are._ But it's not funny when other people are feral," he explains, "It's only funny when we do it."

"That's true," Dream says.

"Any truers?" George replies on instinct, and laughs.

"True," a new voice says, and George looks up, "Wait what are we talking about?"

"Nothing important," Dream answers nonchalantly.

Sapnap plops himself opposite Dream with an apple in hand, "You taking AP Stats next year?"

George hums, "Probably," he responds with a nod, "Dream?"

He scrunches up his nose, "I dunno. The thing is, I'm not that good at math so—" he blows a raspberry, "I don't really... see the point, is all."

"You might as well take it, dude," Sapnap agrees, "Bulks up your app."

George grins. "Ooh, Sapnap's being smart for once?"

He scoffs, "Whatever dude, I'm just tryna look out for him. Which is what _friends_ do? I mean you wouldn't really know."

George lets out an indignant huff and leans forward, "You're the one to talk."

"At least I have—" Sapnap stops midway, realizing they've gone off in a tangent. He clears his throat, locks eyes with George and nudges his head to the side, at Dream, who's gone silent and picks at his fingernails.

"I can help you," George blurts out, and cringes at his _quite obvious_ eagerness.

Dream, luckily, either doesn't notice or doesn't comment, answering, "That would be, uh, good. If you're alright with it, that— I, I just don't wanna like pressure you or—"

"So you're taking it?" Sapnap asks, exasperated.

George turns to look at Dream in the eye, "I really don't mind."

Dream lets out a loud sigh through his lips and slouches backwards, "Alright. Yeah, might as well," he says, but there's an edge of worry in his voice.

A smile starts edging its way up his face, but it gets interrupted by a loud grumble from Sapnap.

"You two are so gross," Sapnap says pointedly.

Dream looks at him weirdly, "What?"

Sapnap tries his best—and fails—to resist the urge to roll his eyes.

"George is there, so you'll do it. That's like, you're only incentive," he snorts, "George could probably tell you to sniff some white powder and you'd do it cause you're _so in love,"_ Sapnap jests mockingly, which earns him a hard shove from Dream from across the table. George rolls his eyes, ignoring the harsh way Dream’s response—or lack of response (?)—painfully tugs.

"Oh, so you don't love him?" Sapnap cranes his head to face George, "Does that mean I have a chance? Sapgeorge confirmed? Let's go?"

Dream shakes his head, "You're such an idiot," he says fondly.

"Well you didn't deny it," he snickers, then all of a sudden, reaches his hands out towards George, "George come here and give me a kiss!"

"You're disgusting," he laughs as Sapnap continues to make grabby hands towards him, "Stop! Stop it. That's gross, Sapnap."

"Stop," George says in his best, _do what I say or there will be consequences_ tone he can muster, which, unfortunately for him, isn't that intimidating in the slightest, as Sapnap continues to lean over the table and grab at him.

"Sapnap," Dream commands in a low tone, (and if it made George's arms go all tingly for a second, well, no one needed to know). For a second, Sapnap's eyes dart to something behind him and suddenly, they jolt back.

"Whatever. You're gross anyway," Sapnap says, "Dream, you can have him. Sorry George, but I'm not into British boys."

George ignores the last part and huffs, "Just because you saw—"

He slaps his hand over George's mouth, immediately cutting him off. "Will you shut up?" Sapnap says.

"Eww, Sapnap—gross," George complains, peeling his fingers off of his face, "I don't know where that hand 's been."

"You should've licked it." Dream points out.

"No thanks, I don't want an STD," George says with a laugh, which earns him a groan from Sapnap.

"What is it with me having STDs?"

"The joke is—" Dream sputters between laughs, "you don't have STDs because you never get laid." George bursts out laughing alongside him.

"Alright, fuck you two. You two suck. I'm going to Karl," Sapnap says, lifting up his lunch tray and extracting himself from the lunch table, "George will suck your dick no matter what happens anyway, since he's in love with you or whatever. Don't bother coming."

Dream flips him off, earning him a lighthearted "Fuck you!" as Sapnap walks off.

George almost laughs at how painfully accurate it is, even though it was a joke. He laughs at how his life is such a _fucking_ joke that his own goddamn feelings were being used against him.

He loves him. So much it's hysterical—it's all so cliché and so ridiculously depressing, how much he wants Dream to know that that he dreams of him at night and how, in almost every instance of them being together, he wants to hold his hand, wants to bury his head in the crook of his neck, wants to kiss him. To love him and to show it freely. Yet despite everything, he still tells himself he shouldn't say anything, that he can't. So he fixes it. Patches it up with thin red thread and soft felt and every piece he could find. He covers it up to the point where it feels like his heart is about to burst at the seams, yet somehow, through some supernatural, miraculous feat, it stays hidden.

He loves him, but he can never know.

So he swallows it down, every flirt, every teasing remark, everything that hints to him being in love. Dream probably feels victorious, pushing at all of George's buttons, getting him all riled up and flushed bright pink, all clammy and embarrassed, getting him to the point where he's yelling an incredulous "Dream!" as he laughs and wheezes (in some occasions, _cries laughing)_ at him. But to George, it's a completely different story. It's tempting—to give in, to bite back. It's so goddamn tempting. But he knows, above all, that he just might just die if he does.

Someone will find out, someone will tell him, and Dream—kind and gentle, who George knows wouldn’t hurt him, never, not intentionally—would say "I'm sorry but I don't like you like that" or "We can still be friends." Or maybe he wouldn't, but he wouldn't lead him on, if he knew. Because Dream is just too nice, too good, too perfect to do anything mean, that if he knew, he would stop flirting. George knows his heart couldn't take the loss if it happened. He knows it'll be so much worse.

He hopes, wishes, _prays_ that Dream would stop leading him on to something he knows they can never be, but at the same time, he wishes it would never end. His words are like a drug, and George is the fool who thought he'd never get addicted. That he could control himself. He rides on that sugar high—the endless sea of compliments and flirty remarks, offhand comments laced with sugar and spice and everything nice—and crashes down hard like a looming wave over calm, gentle waters—the realization that this isn't real, that everything he's saying is just for fun, lighthearted, that his addiction is such a _fucking joke_ but _god._

 _God,_ he couldn't stop.

George coughs into his fist, "You think he's pissed?" George asks tentatively. He's kept his mind occupied on twirling his spaghetti, refusing to look at Dream in the eye.

Dream waves his hand, "Eh, he'll be fine. It's just Sapnap being Sapnap."

His face scrunches up for a second, before he responds with a quiet, unsure, "Yeah."

It's silent for awhile, and George continues eating, twisting his fork and shoving cold spaghetti in his mouth

Noting the uncharacteristic quiet, he looks up, and nearly gets a heart attack when he sees Dream staring right at him.

"Wh—What?" George asks weakly. He can feel his face heat up, much to his embarrassment.

Dream tilts his head in reply.

He really shouldn't find that endearing. It isn't. Not in the slightest.

Tentatively, he opens his mouth to ask again, when Dream grabs him by the wrist and yanks him upwards.

"Wait!" George squeaks and hurriedly shuffles on his feet, dropping his fork with a loud _clang_ on his tray, "Where are we going?"

"Computer room!" he supplies, continuing to yank him forwards.

"Wait I—" George yelps. The moment he untangles himself from his chair, he's being dragged along by the forearm upwards and out the cafeteria door, nearly bumping into one of the cheerleader girls, to which he apologizes to in passing.

"Why are we—?"

Dream smiles down at him with a glimmer in his eyes—mischief, George recognizes—"Revenge."

George sputters, nearly slipping on a stray chip bag on the floor. With heavy breaths, he asks again, "Revenge for...?"

"For saying I simp for you," he answers lightheartedly, wheezing at the end. George feels a searing ache against his skin, but duly ignores it.

"I mean, he's not wrong though," George jabs and tries to match Dream's tone.

Dream only smiles, and for a second George's heart feels overwhelmingly full, fingers tingling and he feels giddy.

He takes the opportunity to look at Dream while he's distracted with running, and he almost regrets it, because the moment he does, time seems to stop around them.

 _Fuck,_ he groans, _not again._

It's been months since then, yet the phrase still rings through.

_I love you._

He wants to beat himself up for it. It's ridiculous to think of such a thing in such a stupid, ordinary situation—they're just running through a hallway, _how_ and _why_ does George feel the need to think of such a thing? Is he really that far gone for him?

He looks at Dream, really looks at him, unashamed. He glances upwards to get a good glimpse of his hair, swirls of blond and coffee are tousled around like a frayed paintbrush, and George can't help but feel just a little bit jealous at how effortless it all looks. His eyes naturally travel down to get a good look at his eyebrows. George really isn't someone to appreciate people's appearances—if it was anyone else but Dream, he really couldn't care less about how they looked—and yet they seem to frame his face _perfectly._ Below, his eyes peek through the loose strands like the sun through looming clouds, and even though George sees his eyes and his hair as the same color, they still somehow manage to peek out like the small bright stars they were.

His eyes dart down to his nose, rigid and bony, yet it suits him just as well as his eyebrows, his eyes, his hair. If it was anyone else but Dream, he would find the way his nose angles itself like a triangle—sharp up top and flat on the bottom, tilting slightly upwards—weird, and yet he finds it unique and beautiful and so very _Dream._

His gaze eventually makes it to his lips, and George fights the hot pin-prickles of warmth that poke on the base of his neck when he lets himself look.

They're parted nicely, just enough so he can see slivers of white behind his lips. Soft. Pliant. They're a nice cherry pink, darkening at the edges where his lip meets his face, and George can't help but wonder what color they would be after—

 _Don't be creepy,_ George reminds himself, _don't be weird._

With a truckload of willpower, he manages to tear his eyes away and chooses to look at the ground and his shoes, chiding himself for being so blatant.

George thinks back to those months ago, wishes he could go back and have the hope he once harbored for Dream. Wishes he still believed it _could_ happen between them. Wishes that he was a bit more resilient, a bit braver, a bit stronger, that he no longer succumbed to the cold hard reality of his situation.

Yet at the same time, he knows it'll never be.

His second revelation rears its head through the first one, but this time, it's much more timid, almost softer, as if a blanket had been placed over him, a light realization that covers him from head to toe. He doesn't fight it anymore. He doesn't want to, because he's accepted it. Confirmed it.

George smiles sadly to himself.

_He can never know._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> edit: okay ao3 hates me the formatting is weird,, should be fixed now tho
> 
> let me know in the comments if you guys would be interested in a continuation of this story! i have a bunch of ideas but idk if anyone would be interested in reading it :P


	2. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not sure what my upload schedule is yet tho so updates might be a bit all over the place .-. anyway, the current chapter now takes place a year since the first chapter. as for the plotline though, well... lets just say you'll be in for a surprise.
> 
> we'll start out slow and gain some traction as the chapters progress. :)
> 
> CLARIFICATION: no, none of them are streamers, they're just screensharing on discord and that's why george can watch them play on their pc. hope that clears things up!

"George?"

The man in question rises from leaning backwards on his chair, blinking rapidly to adjust to the brightness of his monitor.

"Yeah, yes," he rubs his fingers back and forth on the bridge of his nose, "I'm here."

"George!" Karl exclaims, "I didn't even know you were in the call."

"Hi," a palpable sense of tiredness glazes his voice, yet he reels himself to sound as enthusiastic as he can. George hunches over to get a better view of his monitor and to bring his mouth by his microphone. 

"You sound like shit," Sapnap says pointedly.

"Mmn yeah?" he asks emptily. Exhaustion covers him from head to toe, it’s like someone squeezed lemon juice into his eyes, and yet George uses all his power to keep them open.

"It's _early_ ," Sapnap argues. George hovers his mouse over his taskbar, darts his eyes to the time at the bottom of his screen. _11:39 pm,_ it reads.

"Had a long day," George answers, and he's met with a small huff at the other end.

"Oh _please,_ " he says, and George might not be able to see him right now, but he swears Sapnap's rolling his eyes as he speaks. George quietly changes the subject. He's too exhausted to start roughhousing with Sapnap tonight.

"What're you guys doing?"

"Geoguesser," Karl answers, "Sapnap's playing chess with randos, Quackity's, like—"

"—trying not to get a headache," Quackity continues for him.

Sapnap huffs, "You're doing, what, _homework_?"

"Agh, yes I'm doing homework," he groans, "now shut up. You're ruining my vibe."

Sapnap laughs, "What kinda vibe do you have when you're _doing homework?"_

"Fuck off," Quackity shoots out lightheartedly, before proceeding to mute.

Deciding there's no better use for his time, George panders to them. He throws jabs and comments at Karl's less-than-great deduction skills—" _Is this Mexico?" "The sign is in Portuguese." "So is it Mexico or not?_ "—watches Sapnap stream his shitty chess games against people who have no idea how to play chess— _"Holy shit dude, did he just checkmate himself?"_ —and babbles to Quackity (much to his disdain)—" _Hey Quackity. Quackity, hello—" "Shut the hell up."_

Try as he may, however, his full-hearted attempts at keeping himself awake are feeble. His eyes are getting heavier and heavier, the sweet temptation of a mattress and a pillow nestled beneath him is tempting, and it only grows as each minute passes. George hovers over the taskbar again. It takes him a while to process the numbers with his sleep-addled brain, but he feels a placid warmth overcome him when he finally does.

_12:30 P.M._

George thumps his head against his palm. Maybe he should—

"Dream's here!"

George jolts his head up embarrassingly quick, feels a shot of adrenalin that makes his knees jump and his spine tingle. Eyes glancing over to the sidebar, he searches for the green dot on Dream's icon. And if his heart leaps to his throat when he spots it, well, he argues that some things are better left unsaid.

"Hi. Hello," Dream says weakly, the sound of his keys clicking accompanies his voice as he speaks.

"Hey Dream,” Sapnap greets smoothly, “why're you up?" Sapnap asks.

"Eh, couldn't sleep," he supplies easily. And for a second George wants to open his mouth and say _me too,_ but he ultimately chooses to hold the words in his throat.

"You and George both," Karl says distractedly, "ooh DNF moment."

George hears a light _clink_ , and his eyes immediately dart to the voice call—but none of their icons are highlighted in green.

"It's a school day," Dream states, adverting Karl's statement.

"Yeah, but there's no point in sleeping early anyways," Sapnap argues, "I'm sure we can handle _one_ all-nighter."

There's a cut-off exhale, and then Dream speaks up. "You should really go to bed, George."

Two heavy chuckles play in sync through the call, and Sapnap's the first one to catch his breath.

"Oh _come on,_ that's the only reason you're—" Sapnap starts.

"You're such a simp, holy crap," Karl teases in between breaths.

" _You guys can stay up late, but not_ my _George,"_ Karl mocks, " _no, you should come to bed with me and cuddle,"_ he chokes out the last word, bursting into a laugh.

"You heard your man, George, he wants to cuddle," Sapnap says.

There's a sizable pause, and it's then when George realizes neither him nor Dream have spoken up.

He feels his face warm-up and his head spin, so he opens his mouth to ease the awkwardness that's settled. "You guys are so—"

But Dream interjects. "I'm just trying to—"

Dream interrupts himself with a loud sigh, and it rumbles full of exhaustion and exasperation.

"Uhh, it's alright Dream," George starts uneasily. He's treading on unsafe waters.

"No it's _not_ ," he argues, and George can hear how his voice raises and how it starts to strain, so he braces himself for something bad, "it's fucking stupid. We're not even doing anything and they're—"

" _Dude,_ " Sapnap finally speaks up, and George no longer hears his keys clack in the background alongside his voice, "we're joking, c'mon."

An exhale, "Listen, I don't care if people joke about us, _I really don't,_ " Dream says, voice pitching higher by the end of his statement, "but stop pointing at every interaction between me and George and calling it romantic. I mean _seriously._ "

Two thumps come from Dream's end. "You're not helping either, George," Dream snaps.

George sputters, "What—What the hell did I do?! They were the ones making the jokes—"

"You’re not annoyed by this?" he asks incredulously, "c’mon, everything I say to you is reduced to a joke for _god's sake_."

"It's a _joke_ ," George mutters, "You did it before too, y'know—you played _along_ —and you had no problem with doing it either."

And then—nothing.

The silence is thick, so thick that George swears he can hear his ears ring.

But it doesn't last long.

A familiar tune sounds in his headset, he feels a bitter chill violently shove its way down his throat.

Oddly, Quackity is the first one to speak up. "Dang," he mutters, "who pissed in his cornflakes?"

He's met with a soft _thump_ from Sapnap, and then the sliver of a sigh, "Ugh, just leave him be. He doesn't wanna play, fine by me."

George hovers over the little telephone icon.

_Click._

And just like that, it's silent again. George thumps the back of his head against the headrest.

.

.

.

He falls asleep at four in the morning.

—

The next day during passing period, George pulls Dream towards a locker.

He drags him by the forearm, barely registering the way Dream's expression shuffles into three radically different ones before settling on something placid—unreadable. Pushing Dream against the lockers with a clang and thump, George is careful not to accidentally trip someone over amongst the sea of people crashing like two opposing waves trying to get to their next class.

"You could've just called me," Dream huffs out.

"You'd ignore me, though," George really _really_ doesn't want to be an asshole, but _god_ , Dream's testing his limits.

Dream's lips purse. "Depends. What's it about?"

_Say it. Just say it._

"You."

Dream shifts against the lockers, "What does that mean?"

His head snaps up. "You and—you know exactly what— _"_

"Me and—oh."

He catches how Dream's adam's apple shifts, bobbing up and down.

"If this is about _me as a person_ , then drop it. This whole thing with—it's not about you. It's just," Dream sighs, taking a pause to pick his words, "it's—"

George cuts him off. "It's not about anything between," he gives out a throaty sigh, throwing his hands up exasperatedly, "it's not about whatever the hell is going on with you."

Dream's lips tighten further, George nearly misses how a corner of his mouth raises, angling the thin line downwards.

"So what is it then? You're wasting my—"

George isn't here to fuck around.

"You're failing stats," he states. In truth, he already knows the answer—George manages to snatch a side glance at Dream's x-marked test paper when he turns to face him, noting the big red scrawl of _22%_ and Mr Casper's chicken scratch that read _see me_ , before Dream had noticed him staring and hastily folded it into fours and filed it away.

" _That's_ what you called me for?"

"Answer the question."

Dream looks at him a little funnily, before answering with an uneasy, "Maybe."

George can't help but sigh.

"Why didn't you tell me?" George can't hide it. Try as he may, worry seeps through his words and crackles like fire beneath. "I said I'd help you.”

Dream responds with a hard stare.

And—okay. _Maybe_ Dream is _more_ than a little stubborn, and maybe George is hurt sometimes—when Dream dismisses him like anyone else like he does for strangers—but he doesn't expect much, he knows he shouldn't. George _knows_ he's not special, and that he shouldn't start believing he is just because he likes to think things are different between them. He's just another one of his friends, nothing more, and for some reason, acknowledging it doesn't make it hurt any less.

"Whatever," Dream snaps out in monotone.

Without another word, Dream pushes himself off the door, picks up the pace and strides to his next class.

George is dumbfounded. Standing with his back against the lockers and on the verge of cracking into anger, he takes a deep breath, and with a heavy exhale and an exaggerated drop of his shoulders, he leaves.

It's another normal day.

He doesn't want to admit it's the new normal, but he would be lying if he said it wasn't. He asks a genuine question—a simple 'how are you?' or 'how are college apps going?' or 'did you see the new update?'—and Dream answers with short, clear-cut answers with no room for a response, no room for interpretation or for discussion. 'I'm fine,' or 'they're going alright', or 'yes I have,' and it only _kind of_ makes George wanna rip his hair out. He's sure they're still friends—Dream still talks to him, they still joke around sometimes and Dream still smiles at George when he laughs—but there's some underlying tension, something that seems to pry beneath his skin that just _gets_ to him, and now it's becoming so prominent, so common in his day-to-day interactions with Dream that he's not sure what to do. Take him to couples (or in his case, _friends_ ) therapy, maybe?

Dream is driving him up the wall, and George hates him for it.

 _What the hell is up with you?_ He wants to ask. _Why are you treating me like this? What did I do wrong?_

_Why do I still love you?_

Icicles form on his fingertips.

_Why do I love you?_

It's a stupid question. Not just because he knows for a fact that Dream can't provide him with an answer—it's that he _knows_ that he can't answer it himself.

He's never been one to look deep into the semantics of things—George is no philosopher, nor is he an existentialist of any sort—so the question is new. Scary. The unfamiliarity of it all makes his throat close up and his brain runs headfirst into a brick wall. But it's not the idea of loving Dream that scares him—it's been two _years_ for god's sake—it's the fact that he's never second-guessed his feelings. It was natural, the idea of loving Dream; it needed no explanation, it was general knowledge to him at that point.

Water is wet, the sky is blue, we breathe oxygen, and George loves Dream.

So the question stands: why does he still love him even though Dream's pushing him away?

And yet, there's nothing. He has no explanation, no feasible reason for continuing to like a person who (seemingly) hated his guts.

He buries himself deep in thought, so much so that he doesn't hear the first warning bell ring out its off-tune arpeggio through the speaker system. Nor does he hear the second. Or the third. It's only when he tramples over a wet floor sign that stands—quite annoyingly, may he add—in the middle of the hallway, that he looks up and— _shit, this isn't Comp Sci._

George does a 360 and runs towards his class. George thanks whatever god is up there, managing not to alert any of the hall monitors, or the overly-nosey teachers from the other classes. He opens the door to his Comp Sci class, and he's met with a flurry of eyes and brightly lit faces peeking over large monitors. One face in particular stands out from the rest.

"You're so lucky we have a sub today," Sapnap whisper shouts, "if he were here he woulda torn you a new one.”

George marches over and drops himself onto his chair and shucking his backpack off his shoulders. Silently, he takes the keyboard under his fingers and logs in nonchalantly, as if he didn't just come through the door five minutes past the last warning bell.

"Wait," Sapnap pauses, "how _are_ you late? Dream came in, like, five minutes ago."

_I got distracted._

"Got distracted," he says nonchalantly as he types in his password.

"With what?"

_Thinking about Dream._

"Thinking about college."

Sapnap gives an ominous hum, and for a while, he's unusually quiet—thinking.

"...Is there anything, about, y'know college that you, uh," Sapnap pauses, "wanna talk about?"

George lets out a tired sigh before he can stop himself, to which Sapnap perks up at.

"Look dude, if you don't want to we don't have to—"

George is mentally exhausted. "No, that's not what—" George groans, "it's fine."

Sapnap doesn't look very convinced, and George feels a sizable weight of guilt push against his chest. Out of all the excuses, he really had to pick that one, huh?

"What crawled up your ass today?"

Working—George finds out—is much easier when you don't have to deal with knowing that not one, but two people think you're an asshole, even if you didn't mean to act like one.

"Nothing, I—," he groans, seething at the _build failed_ line highlighted in bold red letters, because apparently, the universe had collectively decided that they would make him absolutely miserable today, "—leave me _alone,_ Sapnap."

"If you wanna talk about it, we can talk about it," he says with a shrug, his eyes tenser than usual, "but I'm not talking to you if you've got that stick shoved far up your ass."

George brushes him off with a soft 'eh', not bothering to take his eyes off of his computer screen. Truthfully, though, he still feels the swirls of regret by the bottom of his stomach.

He figures that Sapnap isn't a bad friend—in truth, he really isn't—but there's something about him, perhaps was his unpredictable nature—a teetering-edge sort of character that, underneath his laid-back nature and his the-devil-may-care persona, always had something going on with him. That façade, perhaps, was the main reason as to why George is a bit more than unwilling to talk to Sapnap on a personal level. The difference between Dream and Sapnap though, is that George doesn't have to hold Sapnap with the same precarious nature as he does for Dream. For Dream, his hot-and-cold personality is a new (and very much unwanted) development, whereas, with Sapnap, it's much different.

Sapnap's nature is something George has learnt to work with. He knows the nicks and crannies—the little things that get to him. How, if he were to insult Sapnap's skills or make fun of his abilities, Sapnap would _legitimately_ get riled up and pissed off, George knows that he would shut you out of his life until he's ready to talk again. Or how, Sapnap would be a little bit more sensitive when it came to things about his family, his hobbies, his talents and his faults.

Unlike Dream, Sapnap is much more defensive—George recalls the last time he poked fun at his PvP skills and getting his head bitten off by Karl for making Sapnap sad (George knows it's been months, but he can't help but feel more than a little guilty when he remembers the way Sapnap uncharacteristically whispered an _'it's alright George_ ', an overwhelming twinge of exhaustion and sadness in his tone)—but George has learnt to live with that.

After all, above everything, they're still friends.

For Dream, though? It's like they're strangers.

George knew where to step. He knew what he could and couldn't talk about, and so did Dream. With Dream, he could say whatever he wanted and he wouldn't be phased. With Dream, George knew how to diffuse his anger like a bomb, he knew what color wire to cut and where not to touch, where not to pry.

But now, George takes one look at Dream's face, takes one listen at Dream's voice, and he doesn't know who the hell he's talking to. It's not like George can't read Dream anymore, but it's more than that. George doesn't know what emotion to _expect_ . His days are filled with a solemn-faced friend, littered with awkward attempts at jokes and jabs and ice-breakers that make both of them tense up. If this were Dream from a year ago, he would've easily played along with him, but this Dream isn't _his_ Dream anymore.

It takes two to tango after all, but it’s like they’re on two different tempos.

"Where's Dream?" George asks instinctively.

Sapnap clicks on his mouse, dragging a window to the side, "Eh, he said something about like, going to see his English teacher or something? I dunno."

 _He's probably avoiding you. You shouldn't have said anything._ The irrational thoughts linger, but George promptly shuts them down. Clearing his throat, and in a last-ditch attempt to try and steer his mind away from thinking about Dream, he sneaks a glance at Sapnap.

"You're eating?" He comments, bewildered.

"Yuh," Sapnap answers between chews. George scrunches his nose.

"Your fingers are oily."

The attempt to make him stop falls short. Sapnap snorts, "Yeah? No shit."

"We're in _class,"_ he hisses.

"I don't think he cares," Sapnap adds, wiping his hands on the edge of his jacket, "go see for yourself."

George perks up from his seat and looks over to see the sub teacher in question. He sits languidly by the back door, fixated on the laptop firmly placed on his lap. If George didn't know the names of everyone in his class, he could've easily passed as another student. Sapnap was right after all. The guy didn't look like he could give less of a shit.

His eyes reel back, and Sapnap shrugs at him with a look of _I told you so_ written on his face, looking very much like the dictionary definition of smug.

"Alright fine," he admits, "just don't touch the keyboards with your gross fingers."

"Deal," Sapnap answers cheerily.

With that George is back to debugging.

His brain, on the other hand, is running on a completely different frequency.

 _Ask him about Dream,_ his brain says, _tell him._

George hesitates, not because he doesn't _like_ Sapnap—he's established that he's one of his closest friends, second to Dream—but there's—well.

There's something about _Sapnap_ and _Dream_ and _talking about your feelings_ that makes George's stomach churn.

As he said: there's nothing wrong with Sapnap. Basing himself off of his own judgement, he knows Sapnap isn't gonna play telephone with his, dare he say it, _secrets._ (George almost throws up in his mouth at the word.) And yet, a thought plagues him, the idea that Sapnap will make fun of him for talking about Dream.

It's, well, it's _irrational._ George _knows_ it is, and yet that seems to be the only thing stopping him from spilling his thoughts out like a waterfall to Sapnap.

God, _feelings_. Why do they have to be so alien?

"Something wrong?"

George sighs and rolls back on his chair, away from his desk.

"Well," his shoulders hike up, "it's just—Dream."

There's a pregnant pause. "Ah."

His neck feels a bit like someone's poking him with a hundred red-hot pins and needles.

"Yeah well," George takes a second to think about how he's phrasing his words, "he's just—weird recently, and stuff."

"He's prolly just embarrassed," Sapnap reassures while chewing on an oil-soggy French fry.

George stretches his arms upwards as he leans backwards, and lets out a satisfied exhale.

"Embarrassed of what?" He asks breathily, and Sapnap swivels on his chair to face him directly, elbows on his thighs with a hand supporting his face. 

"You being smarter than him," he waves the fry around in the air, "or him asking for help. He’s just not used to it, I guess."

"Mmn," he answers unsurely. He wants to believe it's that simple—but it can't be, his mind itches to say, _it's never that simple._

"That simple?" he asks before he can stop himself. Sapnap exhales loudly through his nose.

"Probably not. Look, I dunno," he flicks his wrist in exasperation, "Dream is Dream. Guy's got serious mood swings."

George huffs. "This one's been going on for like—since... early October, I think?"

_Wait._

"I mean, you would know, right?" George pauses, "He’s like that with everyone."

Sapnap gulps. "I mean—"

"Please," George sighs. His spine curls like a fern, "just tell me."

There's a second of silence. George continues to not look at Sapnap.

Slowly, almost as if the words were razor-sharp daggers in his throat, Sapnap chokes out, "He's been... the same. It was only really..."

Sapnap scratches the back neck, "It was only really yesterday—with the jokes and stuff—that he, well."

_"If this is about me as a person, then drop it. This whole thing with—it's not about you."_

George chuckles.

_That was a fucking lie._

"So it _is_ my fault."

"What?"

"’S nothing," George brushes off. But Sapnap continues.

"George, if you _actually_ think you pissed him off or something, just wait it out," Sapnap sighs, and there's a shift in the air, almost as if everything had become looser—quieter.

"It's been _two months,_ " he argues. Sapnap runs a hand through his hair.

"And?"

He feels his blood seethe in his veins. " _And?_ Two months and I still don't know what's going on with him! He's not telling me shit like he expects me to figure out what he's feeling!"

"Look, _George_ ," he hears Sapnap's growing exasperation, "I don't know what the fuck is going on between you and Dream. If he's being all up-sy down-sy with you, then ask him."

"Oh thanks a lot, Sherlock." To that, Sapnap slams his paper cup down hard on his desk.

"Look. Dream is—I don't know what's going on with him," he shrugs, “But if you want actual advice, then suit up and fucking _tell him you're pissed._ If you’re too wuss to do that, that’s entirely on you. _"_

"If he—"

Sapnap brushes him off. "If he doesn't say shit, just ignore the guy. He'll come crawling back to you anyway."

"That's not the problem," George sighs, "I'm already trying to talk to him and he walks away mid-conversation _and he doesn't tell me anything._ "

Sapnap looks at him a little murderously, "Well then what do you want me to do? Lock you two in a room and make you play seven minutes in heaven _?"_

George takes that as his cue to shut up.

He runs through his mental collection of all the times he and Dream fight, which—considering the fact that they've been friends for over three years now—is surprisingly not a lot of times.

Perhaps the one thing that differs though, is that he has no idea what to do. In all the past cases, he knew _exactly_ what he did wrong—the one by the creek comes to mind, and when he thinks back to it he cringes at his own idiocracy—but here, there's nothing.

He's tried every page in the book—message him with a simple 'sorry', give him time (he's given him _two entire months, for god's sake),_ ask him what's wrong or what he's done (to be fair though, it's mostly Dream's fault that this one doesn't go through. He refuses to talk to him for even a few seconds these days. The _late-night call_ incident, as he began to dub it, is an outlier from his usual behavior)—so what next? Hire an aircraft to skywrite ' _I'm sorry Dream. I don't know what I did but please forgive me'_ in the sky?

It's like he's broadcasting on a thousand different frequencies, but none of them seem to reach Dream—it's complete and utter radio silence on his end.

"I just don't know what I did wrong," George says quietly, "if he really won't talk to me, then I want to figure it out. But I can't think of a _single goddamn_ thing."

A decade of silence falls upon them.

Then, Sapnap speaks.

"Dude. George,"—he says quietly, timidly, as if he's sharing a deep guttural secret that he doesn't want even _god_ to hear—"if you're really worried about Dream, you can talk to me and... stuff. I don't mind."

It doesn't change the fact that George still thinks talking about all _this_ —his feelings, his emotions, his _relationships,_ for god's sake—is a bit weird.

"You suck."

"Like a hoover," Sapnap quips instinctively, and he can hear the smile in Sapnap's voice.

But okay, maybe he was wrong. Sapnap wasn't _that_ bad to talk to after all.

—

George curses the person who thought it'd be a good idea to hold sports practices after sunset in the middle of winter.

George also curses the person who thought that keeping the heaters unfixed _during the middle of winter_ was a good idea. Because, hey, as it turns out, being in the indoor courts means jack-shit when it's just as cold inside as it is outside. His hands are clammy and his feet are sore and he can't even _grip his racquet_ _correctly_ , for christ's sake, so George completely and utterly blames the shitty Boston weather and his shitty gym and shitty-fucking-everyone for his shitty playing.

He fucks up his serve _twice_ , misses an easy groundstroke, and has the reaction time of a turtle on acid. And since George _knows_ that Coach Rogers isn't a particularly patient man, he takes it upon himself to get off the courts. In the end, he ends up spending half of his time at his supposed 'after-school training session' scrolling aimlessly through multiple subreddits and playing chess with Karl through the messages app on his phone. (Which isn't that challenging, considering Karl knows next to nothing about chess.)

When training's nearly over, he gets called over by Rogers to 'speak with him about his playing'. Three sympathetic looks are being shot his way—two by the girls, and one by the only other guy who plays tennis in his division. What he gets, of course, is expected as Rogers yells at him with unbridled fury. " _You should be lucky you got into the nationals!"_ he says. _"This isn't a joke!"_ he yells. And of course, what would a scolding from your coach be without the signature, guilt-trippy, _"You're letting the team down!"_

And _yadda yadda yadda_ , Rogers drawls on and on and on about how he's not doing his best—and really, George couldn't give less of a goddamn fuck at this point. He has bigger things to worry about.

George thanks the heavens when he finally lets him go.

The ride home is uneventful—the subway can only be so entertaining after all, and he's gotten so used to the commute that it happens on autopilot. Beep his card, catch the train, listen for the station, mind the gap, go from red line to orange line, mind the gap (again), up the stairs, take a cab, and back home he is. There are only a few more things to do before he's back to bed and out for the night: eat dinner, do his homework, take a shower, and spend two hours scrolling mindlessly on Twitter or Reddit or TikTok or whatever was his fancy for that night.

"How'd tennis go?"

Dream, however, is not one of those things.

George’s eyes shoot up from his phone. "Why are you here," he asks, diverting the question. He looks behind and closes the door, almost like an afterthought.

"Answer me first," Dream says lightheartedly, but all George feels is a pang—feels his nostrils hike up and his fingers jolt—as the moment from earlier that day unearths itself from where he had kept it hidden and repressed, locked up in a vault by the far back of his brain. He knows Dream isn't doing it on purpose—how would he know how George feels anyway? He's not a mind reader for god's sake—but that doesn't change the fact that it hurts.

George plops himself on the couch cushion next to him, he answers with a succinct, "Decent."

" _Just_ decent?" He asks, and George can _hear_ his smile, "I thought you liked tennis?"

He feels goosebumps run like a tidal wave down his arms. _You're being friendly?_

He leans his racquet against the couch, "I don't hate it."

Dream looks up from his phone and locks eyes with George. His eyes are small and bright, and they peep through his blond hair like a mouse through their little mousehole.

"You don't like it though," Dream states.

"No," George clicks his tongue on his front teeth, "I mean, I like tennis, just not enough to really, like, enjoy it all the time."

Dream makes a little low hum in reply.

"But you're still in the nationals," he says tentatively as if he's asking a question.

George puts down his phone slowly. "Yes?"

"Why?"

"I was forced to do it," he points out, "no one in the school plays tennis. Or cricket."

"Why not?"

George pauses. He takes a moment to look at Dream, who sits beside him with bored-looking eyes as he emptily stares at his phone, unbothered. His eyebrows are straight, relaxed, and so is his mouth. Flaccid. Bored. 

Surface level, nothing's wrong, and nothing's too out of the ordinary, and yet, George can't shake the feeling that there's something inherently weird about his expression—it's unnatural, all wonky and choppy and the sense of _something's up_ is overwhelming, how his eyebrows are slightly curved in a furrow, how there's the slightest crease forming just where his nose bridge ends, in between his eyebrows, how his lips are drawn a bit more inwards than usual, and how his relaxed cheeks don't match up with his jaw (Dream clenches so hard that George swears he can see his throat visibly tighten).

So he takes the plunge and bites.

"What's with you?"

Dream snaps his head up like a whip, and George faintly takes note of the way his eyes turn into something different.

"What's with—why?"

_What's with all the questions?_

_What's with you being friendly all of a sudden?_

_What's happening between us?_

~~_Why do I still love you?_ ~~

He shifts himself backwards, "What's with all the tennis questions?"

Dream looks back down at his phone, mouth thin-lipped as he looks a bit embarrassed—guilty, maybe? But George doesn't know what he's supposed to be guilty about.

"Nothing really," Dream answers without missing a beat, "It's just. We—I know that—"

A loud sigh. That doesn't help George's growing confusion.

"You like tennis, right?"

 _Back to square one?_ George thinks, biting his lip and answering with a slow, "...Yes?"

Dream looks away, the back of his head faces George, and he draws a blank.

"What do you want?" he blurts out.

Dream whips his head around, and he swears he can hear Dream's neck crackle at how fast he does.

"What does—” 

"You're being nice," he points out, and _shit._

Dream's eyebrow ticks.

 _Double shit._ George knew he wouldn't let it go that easily.

"...Because I'm your friend?" Dream says, crossing his arms. The way he says it, though—the less-than-obvious way he seems to vehemently heave out the word _friend_ like it had personally spat in his mouth—doesn't go unnoticed by George.

_Take the plunge. Bite._

George tsks. "Yeah, if you consider people you purposefully ignore as your _friends,"_ he makes air quotes, emphasizing the 's', "then suuuure."

George wants to slap a hand over his own mouth, because _what the hell, why are you acting like this?_ But the words have already spilt out into the cold open air.

Dream's shoulders tense. "I said it's not about you. Not everything is about you."

He feels the venom froth. It’s chokingly thick in the back of his throat.

"Yeah, okay," he snorts humorlessly, "then why is it only _me_ that's getting this—this ‘ _treatment’_ from you?"

For a second, Dream's nose flares and he sees his jaw tighten. _Triple shit, oh god_ —

"Oh fuck you, George,"—his words are razor-sharp, deep enough to cut through his bones—"I'm trying my best to—"

"What? Apologize? You're full of—"

"—full of what?"

He can just see how Dream's shoulders shift underneath the fabric of his jacket.

"Full of bullshit!"—he points an accusatory finger—"Stop pretending this isn't my fucking—"

A hard glare. "I just said it isn't, jesus," Dream groans, "my life doesn't revolve around—"

"I never said it did! Can you stop putting words in my—"

"Then stop getting pissed over the fact that—"

"Sapnap, Karl, Quackity. You're all buddy-buddy with them but then there's me and I—"

He chokes out a breath he doesn't know he was holding.

"I can't fucking take it anymore."

His heartbeat pounds loudly in his ears, yet everything around him is dead silent.

For a second, he thinks Dream is about to apologize—that's what he always does when they get into arguments like this. He'll say sorry and so will George, and the two will be fine again, and everything will go back to normal.

It's when Dream side-eyes him with a snarl on his lips, that George realizes that _this was more than another argument._

This, George thinks, is something else. Something more terrifying, unfamiliar.

For the first time since the summer of sophomore year, he thinks, _this might be the end._

"You're taking this way too personally," Dream mutters under his breath.

Oh, _fuck you._

"So what? It's not me, it's _you then_?"—a sardonic chuckle escapes his lips—"Bull. Shit. I obviously did something that—"

"Fine! Do you want me to spell it out to you? I—"

George looks at him expectantly.

The room goes quiet.

He wants to _laugh,_ because _of fucking course._

"You know what? I don't have to explain myself. I don't _need_ to."

George exhales loudly through his nose, "What, am I just supposed to pretend you haven't been straight up ignoring me since—"

Dream's expression cracks to something akin to _downright infuriated_. His eyes grow scarier, and George sees the slightest glare in his eyes, the glare of an unfamiliar darkness, like the one you’d find at the bottom of the ocean.

"Don't."

George breathes out so intensely, so potently, that he _swears_ he can see his breath in the air.

"I'll—you better fucking tell me—"

"I want to."

He clenches his fist so hard that it shakes from the tension.

"I _want to,_ " he repeats, almost as if he's convincing _himself,_ "but not now. I should've kn—"

A groan. Dropping his head and loosening the tension in his shoulders, Dream's eyes shoot up, and he locks them with George.

"This isn't the time," he mutters.

_Say something. Say something._

George opens his mouth to reply.

"I'm—"

A rustle. _Click_.

He's gone.

_It's like he wasn't even there._

George lets out a breath he doesn't know he's holding, passes it through his teeth in a low hiss.

_Like he wasn't even here._

Almost instantly, a tidal wave of regret crashes into him.

Ah yes, because the _one fucking time_ Dream wasn't being that big of an asshole, George had to be. Fuck. He's lost his chance to speak with Dream. God knows when Dream will be back to normal, back to being _Dream_ again.

He groans, throwing his head back over the couch, dangling his head loosely over the edge of the cushions.

_What's up with you?_

A whimper gets caught in his throat.

_What's with all the questions?_

His heart rumbles hard like a bass drum right against his ears.

_Why are you avoiding me?_

He rolls over, moves far back and presses the curve of his spine firmly against the couch cushions, leaves his hands over the edge, boneless.

_What did I do wrong?_

His back aches, his muscles hurt and his heart feels like it's shrunken a thousand sizes too small from the overwhelming cold—but he lies there, staring blankly at the black mirror of his television screen. To be frank: he looks like a complete mess: hair flying in every direction, sweat gathering on his hairline and just above his eyebrows, the faintest blur of greyish purple lingers like smog beneath his eyes.

_What's happening between us?_

It swirls. His head swirls like a vigorous black hole, he hears the rumbling of his pulse grow louder and louder, his heaving and the thumping and the spinning and the ever-present feeling of yearning and regret and hiraeth for something, _someone,_ anything—a bizarre cacophony that crashes and echoes and plays loud loud loud. So loud that he can barely see. Barely breathe. Barely think.

_I love you. I love you._

They culminate into a singular, deafening, ear-piercing high note that rings so loud in his eardrums, that everything around him seems to crumble, evaporate, fade, dissipate.

_He can never know. He can never know._

Faintly, he feels his lids flutter as his vision gets blurry and the edges smudge into nothingness. Before his consciousness slips away, he hears a final thought whisper like the wind.

_This can't go on forever._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> do you guys prefer long chapters (5-6k) that updates every two weeks, or shorter chapters (2-3k) with weekly updates? i don't mind doing shorter chapters, but idk how long this'll be and from how i'm planning things, this one will be a doozy + i don't wanna make the chapter count to be _too_ high.
> 
> comments and kudos make my day! they tell me you enjoy the story and they're my driving force to keep on writing :D


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